Motherhood Uncensored

Note to self: This is why they invented the Internet

My husband and I smartened up for this recent visit from the in-laws and scheduled a much needed date night. And a few fancy drinks and an Irish car bomb later, we found ourselves scrambling around our bedroom for lube using an iPhone as a flash light and doing our best not to wake the baby who still sleeps in our closet.

Now my my drawers are usually overflowing with lube since many companies so generously offer up samples for me to try and write about on my sex column.

But apparently after the tragic foyer oil slick incident of 2011 caused by a nosy toddler and a not-so-toddler proof bottle of lube, I must have tossed them all.

Of course, that didn't occur to us when we were stumbling around in the dark, which we continued to do for long enough that if we didn't originally need lube, we did, in fact, desperately need it now.

So the next day, after waking up to a bathroom counter full of random massage oils, a sex candle (who knew?), and my long lost diva cup, I was determined to never find myself in such a desperate predicament. My solution: I'd stop at the grocery store after my dentist appointment to pick up a few things, including a bottle of lube.

A brilliant idea, in theory, except I quickly discovered that my store keeps them behind a locked glass cabinet, along with other dangerous items. Like ovulation kits. And pregnancy tests.

Now given the rarity of such debaucherous date nights, I could have probably just gone home, ordered all sorts of various lubes online, and saved myself the embarrassment of having to ask the young, attractive pharmacy tech to open up the glass cabinet.

Because if there's anything that says "I'm having THE SEX!" it's lube. I suppose it could also say "I have a masturbation habit!" or "I had four kids and it's like the Sahara down there!"

But I was hell bent on getting my lube, damnit, so much so that I boldly asked him if he had the key to the cabinet.

He nodded and headed my direction.

And then I sort of freaked out.

Do I pretend like I know what I want? Or do I peruse the various offerings?

Do I offset my purchase by grabbing a few ovulation kits?

Should I say something funny?

Damn, that KY tastes like crap. Blech.

Is that the biggest bottle you have?

It took me 2 days to get that one off my thighs.

What? No watermelon? Bummer.

I hear this one's great for anal!

Instead, I just grabbed the big bottle of Astroglide, mumbled something like "This one is water-based, right?" and walked quickly away, not looking back.

You never look back.

Then I headed straight for the self check-out line.

I may have willingly given one person a bit of entertainment at my expense, but hell if I was going to give that pleasure to yet another one.

{photo via}

I'm kind of wishing for the skee ball machine

May your Christmas be filled with wonderful things that don't look anything like this awful jean jacket my daughter got from the in-laws.

{The aforementioned skee ball machine}

A mother-in-law in Paris

Last weekend while I was in New York for work my husband called me to tell me that he was assigned a 7-day trip to Paris, which was not completely out of the ordinary for him but a little surprising since he had not been overseas for a trip in a really long time.

His first assumption was that it would be a back and forth kind of thing, which, as you might imagine, is not the most exciting trip, well, sitting in a cockpit for 8 hours, snoozing in a hotel for the night, and then trekking back across the ocean again.

Though with the way my kids have been acting and sleeping, it sounds almost like a spa vacation.

But, as it turned out, it was a 72-hour layover, which meant no ocean hopping, but rather, three straight days of Paris.

Beautiful, sweet, tasty, gorgeous HOLYOMFG Paris.

So he decided it would be cool to take Quinlan with him, and I agreed. Her first time abroad and flying with her dad!

Then he mentioned something about having to bring his mom.

Huh? What?

Apparently if the flight was full on the way home, he'd have to leave Quinlan in Paris alone, which is generally frowned upon legally I hear, so my husband thought of the first person that he'd like to enjoy Paris with.

Basically, not me.

Now I could have easily flown from NYC to Pittsburgh (where the flight was originating) and joined them while my mother-in-law enjoyed a few days with my kids, making sure to remind them that I suck at naming babies and children will tease them for their whole life.

But hell, they won't remember that shit AND I'D BE IN PARIS MOTHERFUCKERS!

Alas, that was not the case, at which point I blathered on about my disappointment to my best friend, who in trying to cheer me up reminded me that it would be my mother-in-law in Paris which would be quite similar to the Jersey Shore in Italy thing, except with less alcohol. And vagina.

"Who would like it here anyway? There's all this bread. And cheese! Gah carbs!"

"Yeeeeeauh gimme one-a dem crow-ee-sant things."

"I don't know what everyone goes on about. Paris is Dirty. They eat too much cheese. And the coffee is strong. And you have to bring your own Splenda!"

"Give me a tiny room on the New Jersey shore any day. There's no Irish Weekend. And no one speaks a word of English. Snobs!"

"People get excited about this painting? It's a woman. With a sort of smile. Bah."

And not surprisingly, the reports from across the ocean confirmed our suspicions. The real food probably gave her the shits because that's what happens when your body is accustomed to fat-free-everything-made-from-chemicals and it suddenly eats real food.

Indeed, she asked for sweet-n-low for her espresso.

And she drove my husband insane. 

So in a way, I felt a little vindicated. I mean, he decided to take her (and yes, I get it, she's old, it's her first time there, as her son he feels this need to attempt to impress a person who clearly cannot be impressed by anything). 

And maybe going to France would help her learn how to spell "Margot."

And aside from the invaluable post-trip stories, I expected to get my hands on a gorgeous Parisian silk scarf or French lingerie or at least a few bottles of Bourdeaux.

But apparently, my mother-in-law did the shopping. And got the last laugh.

Because the only thing I got was this.

Oh the irony.

 

Nothing is ever free

A couple of days ago, I finally connected with my sister-in-law (my husband's sister) to congratulate her on her pregnancy after she received the car seat we sent her.

She's only, oh, 20 weeks along.

We're not exactly close, and either are she and my husband. And to complicate matters, she doesn't use email (Hello 2011!), so we personally don't connect very often.

Since we had Bridget, it's been a little tense, without one word of "Congrats!" or "Hey, you had a baby!" coming from their camp, which I can totally understand, in a way, when you're getting hormone shots in your ass and your sister-in-law can't stop having babies. 

Still, my newly post partum feelings were a little hurt, if even for Bridget who has no cards, dried flowers, or deflated balloons in her keepsake box.

Then we blew it by sending an extremely belated holiday/birthday gift card and expensive, gigantic XBOX guitar game to her 13-year-old stepson which we had to call them to see if they actually got it.

But whatever! She's having a baby and I'm truly happy for her. And since my husband hadn't yet sent her anything, I decided it was time somebody did.

We chatted a bit about how she's been feeling and when her shower is and what she needed that I could send to her.

"Swaddlers?," I asked. "Do you need those?"

"Are those so you can do dishes?" she replied.

"Um...." I mumbled. I pictured her scrubbing pans with a swaddling blanket. Then I realized she meant "sling."

Oh boy.

Then she mentioned how my in-laws were buying her nursery furniture for them, which I have to admit was pretty nice considering they bought us a few onesies for Quinlan, and the other kids.

Bridget got a big fat nothing.

And then she told me that my MIL (who lives about 2 hours away from her) would be watching the baby two days a week when she heads back to work.

"For free!" she said. "Daycare is so expensive!"

And then any slight tinge of jealousy I might have felt about the furniture/onesie discrepancy, on behalf of my children mind you, completely disappeared.

Free is awesome. Unless it's the woman who pinned her own daughter's ears back with tape because she thought they stick out a little.

And who tells a 2-year-old that her name is stupid.

Margot Polo

When my husband leaves, it's like a well-oiled machine around here, but on the rare occasion that I go away, particularly when it's not planned the month before, it requires major finagling.

The last resort: Call my mother-in-law.

I try to remind myself that it's good for her to see her son, the grandchildren (and vice versa), and well, I'm not there, so suck it up sister and enjoy the time away.

Sure I'll come home to my 8-month-old's sippy cup full of completely unwatered down juice or my kids telling me when I quickly flip past "The View" on my way to Nick Jr. that "hey, that's Grandma's favorite show!"

But they're alive.

So with great reluctance my husband enlisted the help of his mom to cover for the possibility that his plane might breakdown (AWESOME THOUGHT THANKS DEAR) thus stranding him in Alaska, even though I had booked a babysitter just in case.

And I got to take Drew to see the Cars 2 world premiere (Thanks Perdue!). Yeah yeah, Lightning McQueen. Hell, I was inches away from David Beckham! Drew had his brush with the beautiful and very pregnant Posh Spice who was very apologetic when she bumped into him.

I won't be quitting my day job.

But damn them, they're even hot from behind.

When I landed, I got a text telling me that my MIL had taken my the older girls to the pool and Margot, upon hearing the kids playing "Marco Polo" had said something like "Hey, why do those kids keep calling my name?" which might just be the cutest thing ever.

To which my MIL said to Margot:

"I told your mom kids would tease you with that name and not to name you that."

Now I'm not quite sure what I find most disturbing about this:

a. She's losing her hearing.

b. She thinks our kid is named "Marco." (Which isn't surprising since she can't even spell her name)

c. She's never heard of the game "Marco Polo."

d. She's a liar (since she never told me any such nonsense).

e. She actually said all that TO my kid. In front of other people, who could hear her. And not inside her head.

e. WTF.

I held back from giving her a piece of my mind, since you just can't argue with crazy. Believe me, this I know.

However I hear my husband ripped her a new one, as well he should. 

And aside from her no longer being welcome in my home when I'm not here, I'm just going to put her on about 400 hearing aid and psychiatric care mailing lists. And sign all any cards from my kids:

Love, Quinlan, Drew, Bridget, and Marco

The sad part: She probably won't even notice.